Put Into Play
by frozen-delight
Summary: There's a video lying in the bottom drawer of his office desk that Lestrade watches from time to time. Inspired by the minisode "Many Happy Returns". Warning for possible spoilers. Sherlock/John and Sherlock/Lestrade one-sided relationship.


Just a small something because I felt like it. Inspired by the minisode "Many Happy Returns". Potential spoilers for those who haven't seen it yet.

Unbetaed, so apologies for any mistakes.

* * *

**Put Into Play**

There's a video lying in the bottom drawer of his office desk that Lestrade watches from time to time. He doesn't trust himself to keep it at home, where he might be tempted to pour himself a glass of wine and be reduced to undignified sobs when he puts it on.

With slow, hesitating hands, Lestrade opens said drawer and takes out the DVD. It's late. The corridor outside his office lies dark and silent. For hours and hours, he's been brooding over the files of his latest case, a jewellery theft in Lambeth. But he can't seem to crack it. Not tonight, at least.

Maybe it's the box that's distracting him.

Sitting on his desk is a cardboard box containing all kinds of items which are in one way or another connected to Sherlock – a pack of nicotine patches (Not Lestrade's preferred brand!), an old steam locomotive (_Shockingly imprecise_, Sherlock would undoubtedly scold him, but how the hell is Lestrade supposed to know which model of perceived ten million different ones that have been produced since the invention of the first engine this one actually is? Come to think of it, who the fuck cares for stupid locomotives, anyway?), the pink phone Moriarty used to contact the detective (Why had Sherlock given that to him?), some scraps of paper covered with Sherlock's curiously neat handwriting and a yellow wax mask which helped convict a smuggling ring. (That was a funny one, back in the good old days where it was just Sherlock and Lestrade – _for Christ's sake, don't start on that again!_)

Lestrade means to give these things to John. He started putting them together when he noticed that someone had obviously snooped around his office. And when he saw a person called Mary left encouraging comments adorned with kisses on John's blog.

Lestrade runs a finger over the cover of the DVD and sighs. Who's he doing this for – himself? John? Sherlock?

Usually, he's not one to question his actions much. Looking for deeper, unacknowledged reasons buried away in the human subconscious is the kind of crap psychotherapists earn their money with. Not his area. Must be the late hour, then.

For he can't help but wonder: What's his motive in giving the box to John - helping him move on or preventing him from doing it? And which ought it to be, come to that?

Bloody mess, all of this. Well, when have his relations with Sherlock ever been anything but?

Lestrade frowns at the disk in his hands. Almost innocently, it looks back up at him.

Making the video was Lestrade's idea entirely. Mostly an altruistic idea. To help Sherlock console John over his absence at the latter's birthday dinner. Not entirely altruistic, though. Or he wouldn't have started filming when Sherlock wasn't expecting him to.

The unguarded, pacing, twiddling, jabbering Sherlock he'd captured on video was the only Sherlock he'd ever have to himself.

How Lestrade wanted to reach out, to brush Sherlock's arm, just once, to halt the frantic pacing. Or maybe to silence the nervous babbling with a kiss. Most of all, though, he longed to make Sherlock look at him, speak to him, and not to John, using Lestrade and his camera as nothing more than a window to his flatmate – colleague - best friend – l... Well, no need to elaborate on that now. After all, there's Mary.

Lestrade's the only one, it seems, who's been condemned to never move on. Condemned eternally to stand and stare and admire and adore. Oh well.

Standing behind the camera, his heart full of hesitant longing, he couldn't bring himself to move. Didn't utter a sound. Just kept filming.

Every time he watches the video, Lestrade tries to persuade himself how ridiculous Sherlock looks, twitching about, cutting a positively cartoonish figure. Quite funny, one might say. On some occasions, he attempts to focus on the arrogance Sherlock displays when he's talking of John's friends and humanity at large. On others, he pays attention to how annoying the consulting detective is, even when taped for less than five minutes, just being his impossible self.

Unfortunately, the words which always suggest themselves to his mind are instead – charming, sweet, vulnerable.

Lestrade will never forget how he entered the flat, finding Sherlock bent over his experiments, acting like he was solving all the world's problems in the tiny kitchen of 221B Baker Street. 'Busy. I have a thing,' was Sherlock's brusque reply when Lestrade asked him if he was going to John's birthday dinner.

'Want me to join you?' was all Lestrade asked in return.

Sherlock's face as he looked up from his beaker was priceless. Clearly, he'd been expecting Lestrade to drag him to the party by force. He'd never expected understanding.

Well, he's never expected anything from Lestrade, has he? The stupid sod.

Once he'd recovered from his astonishment, Sherlock said, 'You should go.' It took Lestrade's addled, lovesick brain a while to realise that Sherlock meant 'to the party', not 'away'.

Then he suggested recording a video message to take to John in Sherlock's stead. The idea made Sherlock uncomfortable. And yet he complied. Was it out of love for John? Out of trust in Lestrade? Both, maybe?

Hopefully both.

Isn't it ridiculous how Lestrade keeps on hoping, even after all this time?

But that's just the thing about Sherlock, isn't it? Most of the time, he made Lestrade feel so small, so insignificant. But during those few, precious moments where Lestrade managed to surprise him, the wonder in Sherlock's eyes lifted him up, making him taller, grander, more mysterious than even the Sphinx. Damn. Like a silly little child whose eyes are fixed on a shiny object which it needs – needs – _needs_ to grab at and who stumbles on its way and scrapes its knee, Lestrade's been so addicted to those glorious instances of appreciation that he's silently accepted all the humiliation Sherlock threw at him, constantly hoping for better things.

He's not sure which stage he finds himself in right now. It could be the ultimate peak of esteem and trust. Or the rifts of mindless, unfeeling slight which lie gaping beneath.

Lestrade stares at the DVD in his hands, willing it to give him an answer. Predictably, it merely gazes back up at him, silent and impervious. Instead, his phone pings, once. It's a text message from a blocked number.

_Brussels is utterly boring._

He rolls his eyes, sighs.

Then, with sudden decision, he places the DVD in the box on top of the other Sherlock related memorabilia. High time he gave it to John.

* * *

Thanks for taking the time to read. Reviews are almost as good as waiting for January 1st. :)


End file.
